


Ways to Say "I Love You"

by StarMaamMke



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Death, F/M, Fluffy, I love you prompt challenge, Most of the one shots are unconnected, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Romance, angsty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-09 01:22:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8870242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarMaamMke/pseuds/StarMaamMke
Summary: Based on "The Way You Said 'I Love You'" prompt list originally posted by @trash-by-vouge on tumblr. A series of one-shots and drabbles centered around different ways and scenarios Jim and Joyce say "I love you". Some of it is pretty dark, and I got on an apocalypse kick for a few.





	1. When We Lay Together on the Fresh Spring Grass/Broken, as you clutch the sleeve of my jacket and beg me not to leave

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my Tumblr blog @StarMaamMke
> 
> These two prompts exist in the "Confidence" universe. You can read the first two entries is that series here:
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/series/574807

**When We Lay Together on the Fresh Spring Grass/Broken, As You Clutch the Sleeve of my Jacket and Beg Me Not to Leave**

Joyce Calloway made her way down Founders Lane, her eyes narrowed with a mixture of disgust and envy as they drank in the sprawling lawns and pristine colonials that made up the neighborhood.

 

“Bourgeois pigs,” she muttered under her breath, knowing full well that her ass would be grass if she was overheard spouting out commie sentiments in American as apple pie Hawkins, Indiana. She had found a battered copy of _The Communist Manifesto_ in her brother Billy’s room, and once she got over the shock of her Marine older brother reading subversive literature, she had devoured it. It struck a chord with her, especially when Hawkins had such a stark division of class between Founders Lane and Hemingford Court, where she lived with her father.

 

The reason she was even loitering around such an opulent neighborhood was Jim Hopper. He didn’t live there. Jim’s family was staunchly middle class and tucked away on Hummingbird Lane. The arrival of Spring meant that he was mowing lawns for a little extra cash - he charged by the hour and Founders Lane had some enormous lawns. Joyce had a mind to bring him some lunch, and made her way down the lane with a bag of burgers and fries from Benny’s Burgers, where she waited tables.

 

She found him in front of Mayor Bembenek’s mansion, driving about on a green riding mower. The weather that afternoon was edging on humid, and his white t-shirt clung to his barrel-like chest, his dark blonde hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. A blush crept up Joyce’s neck and over her face as she admired his large, strong form, hard at work. Her cotton dress brushed and fluttered against her calves as she ran the last few feet to make herself known to him.

Jim killed the engine when he saw her, a wide grin breaking out over his features. He gave an appreciative whistle as Joyce walked up. She rolled her eyes and put an exaggerated sway on her hips before hopping onto the back of the lawn mower. “Don’t hug me, you’re sweaty and gross,” she warned, pressing a kiss against the back of his neck. She reeled back a bit and wrinkled her nose. He smelled like an old battery. He turned so that he was facing her, and raised an eyebrow at the greasy white bag in her hand.

 

“Honey... you baked.” She snorted, gently pushed at his chest, and then wiped her hand on his blue jeans with sniff and a grimace.

 

“Shut up,” she grumbled, pulling out a foil wrapped burger and handing it to him. She took another out and began to unwrap it. Jim halted her with a gentle hand and she gave him a perplexed look.

 

“Not here - come on.”

 

Jim took her hand and led her to the backyard. Just beyond the large and wild flower garden was a small man-made pond with a Weeping Willow nearby. “Perfect spot for a picnic,” he remarked, pulling her over to the edge of the water. They sat side by side and ate in companionable silence, exchanging little glances and smiles. The weather was beautiful, the shade was a godsend, and Joyce found herself not wanting to complain where the mayor got the money for such an opulent looking pond.

  
“I kind of love you, Little J,” Jim confessed. Joyce, ever in possession of grace and poise, snorted and gave the side of his leg a little kick. “I knew you felt the same.”

* * *

 

**Hawkins, Indiana**

**1979**

 

“Don’t ever _ever_ come back here!” Joyce screamed as Lonnie’s rusted out Camaro peeled out of the driveway and into the night. Her eyes stung from tears and the dust that Lonnie and his car left in their wake. Joyce raked a hand over her eyes and let loose another string of profanities before heading back into the house to wash her face.

 

The boys were at Karen Wheeler’s house, an arrangement Joyce made on day one of her and Lonnie’s three day argument when she knew the end result was going to either be injury or abandonment. It made no sense to subject her children to any more ugliness. He had been running around again, which Joyce had learned to tolerate over the years; however, this girl had expensive taste and Lonnie drained the joint bank account and the boys’ college fund in order to cater to said tastes. Joyce’s rules had been clear: keep a job, contribute, and don’t cheat the boys. He lost his job, he hadn’t added to the bank account in months, and he stole from his children. Gone.

 

The fight began when he returned home, furious over the fact that none of his cards were working. Joyce told him the score, and he ended up screaming at Joyce and the boys from the hallway, while the three of them barricaded themselves in the bathroom. Joyce, Jonathan, and Will escaped out the bathroom window and drove into town to the Wheelers’. Karen had begged Joyce to stay too, but she refused.

 

“I have to see this through to the end.”

 

Lonnie had been gone when Joyce returned, but she knew he would be back. She sat on the porch and chain-smoked until she realized that his return would not happen that night. He was back the next day, rumpled and reeking of damp socks, cheap liquor and cigarettes. He begged for a second chance; when Joyce told him he was going on a 150th chance, he started to scream at her again. She screamed back, and threw Will’s homemade, ceramic ashtray at his head. The multi-colored lump of a grade school craft shattered on the wall behind him, grazing his ear before impact.

 

The situation would have escalated, but Karen Wheeler had apparently tipped off the Hawkins Police and begged them to keep an eye on the house. Jim Hopper banged on the door just as Joyce managed to rake her nails across Lonnie’s cheek to get him to stop choking her.

 

The second night of fighting ended with Lonnie spending the night in jail. His new girlfriend bailed him out, which irked Joyce to no end considering she had done it with what had to be Will and Jonathan’s college fund, the dumb bitch.

 

Jim Hopper had begged Joyce to get a restraining order, but Joyce refused. “I just have to get this squared away. Don’t think for one minute that you coming back into town means you get to tell me what to do.”

 

Like clockwork, Lonnie came back to the house. This time Joyce told him, once and for all, that they were getting a divorce, and that she would never give him access to her money again. When he made a move to escalate, she informed him that the cops were still watching the house (they weren’t). He called her all manner of demeaning names, and went on his way.

 

The whole experience left Joyce itching for a drink, which was unusual for her, as she normally looked down on the concept of drinking one’s feelings. She was willing to make an exception. She picked up the phone and begged Karen to take the boys for one more night - her old friend, sensing the desperation in her voice, agreed.

 

It was going on 10 PM when Joyce made her way to the Crystal Tavern. It was a Friday, so it didn’t have quite the weekend crowd, but it wasn’t entirely empty either. Joyce started to take a seat at a secluded little table in the corner, but someone at the edge of the bar made her pause. It was Jim Hopper, and he was practically slumped over in his seat. His date, a petite redhead, looked utterly miserable - she kept looking around the room with wide eyes, as if a rescuer would appear to save her from the mistake of agreeing to a date with a recently divorced man. Joyce sighed as she observed the living consequence of drinking to forget, and decided to intervene. The man _had_ interrupted a violent row between her and Lonnie, after all.

 

“Oh hey, Joyce!” the woman greeted with overdone enthusiasm as Joyce approached. She realized that the petite redhead was Chrissy Carpenter. Jim had been feeling nostalgic, apparently.

 

“No one will fault you for going home, Chrissy,” Joyce remarked.

 

“I kind of drove him here.”

 

“I’ll take it from here.”

 

“Oh thank God!”

 

Chrissy practically fled from the bar. Joyce poked Jim’s shoulder when she realized he was snoring. “Hop, come on.” The large man jerked awake and regarded Joyce with bleary eyes.

 

“Little J…”

 

“No one calls me that anymore. Big J died our senior year, remember? I’ve been the only Joyce in our class for years.”

 

“Ev-everyone dies…” He groaned, burying his face in his hands.

 

“I’m so goddamn sorry about what happened to you, Hop. Let me take you home.”

 

“Gotta be quiet so your dad don’t kill me…”

 

Joyce groaned, and stepped closer. “Throw an arm over my shoulder, and let’s go for a walk. I’m parked outside.”

 

Somehow, despite the fact that Jim was about 70 pounds out of Joyce’s weight class, she managed to drag him to her car and deposit him in the passenger side. After she finished buckling him in, he grabbed her by the forearm.

 

“Please don’t leave me…”

 

“Okay, but I gotta get in on the other side so I can drive.”

 

“Everyone keeps leaving me and I can’t… I love you, Little J.”

 

Joyce had to catch her breath before pulling away from him. He was drunk, and he was sad and broken - reverting back to their past, and trying to conjure up a dead leaf echo of a familiar feeling.

 

He wouldn’t remember it in the morning.


	2. With a Storm Raging Outside/Before We Jump

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joyce says it in the heat of battle, Jim says it before a leap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two entries to the I Love You prompt challenge on my tumblr @StarMaamMke, look me up or my fic blog @StrangerThingsFic

**With a Storm Raging Outside/Before We Jump**

“Where did you get a flamethrower?”

 

“No time, Joyce- help me barricade the entrances!” 

 

“I just… was this police issued?”

 

“Oh my god!” Jim Hopper took a break from shoving furniture against the front door of his trailer and stalked over to the kitchen, where Joyce stood inspecting the deadly weapon. “It doesn’t matter where I sto- where I got it. It’s going to help us get out of here in a pinch if need be, but we need to get this place secure NOW.” 

 

As if on cue, the sound of clicks and thin, unnatural laughter floated in from the outside. A twisted, black claw slapped against the window near Joyce’s head, which made the small woman give out a startled shriek. The glass was webbed with tiny cracks, and Jim pulled Joyce away as the claw reeled back for another volley, shielding her from the spray of shards as they rained down against his shoulders and back. Joyce twisted from his grasp and grabbed a large knife from the butcher’s block. She gave a warrior’s cry before she jumped onto the counter, raised the knife above her head, and brought it down to pin the creature’s groping hand against the faux-formica. There was a terrible hiss, like ten tea kettles going off at once - the wounded thing ripped its hand from countertop and disappeared from sight; however, the dread inducing sounds outside reached a fever pitch. 

 

“Get that window covered!” She cried, leaping from the counter to get to finish the task of barricading the door. Without thinking, Jim grabbed a hammer and nails from the junk drawer, ripped off two, cheap, particle board cabinets and set to work at a feverish speed.

 

“How many are out there?” Joyce asked, leaping backwards as the pounding on the door rattled the refrigerator barricade. 

 

“I counted three.”

 

“Three? Fuck! The boys -”

“Are safe with Bob Newby. I told him to take them to the vault underneath the Department -”

 

“They’re trapped!”

 

“They’re armed to the teeth and have access to the tunnels. Those should take them straight to the next town over, which is cleared of all… last I heard, that town was a safe zone.”

 

“Why haven’t these things broken through the walls yet?” Joyce asked as Jim moved to help her shove the sofa against the door.

 

“They’re children - they haven’t reached full strength yet.”

 

“I hate you for knowing this. I hate that you kept this from me.” Joyce slapped his hand from her shoulder and ran into the bedroom. “Help me put the bed in front of the window!”

 

“I did what I thought was best - I made that deal for you and your family!” He yelled after her. They hefted Jim’s bed, frame and all, and tipped it in front of the large window in his bedroom. 

 

“This isn’t going to keep them out for long - I never asked you to sell your soul, Hop!”

 

“There’s another flamethrower, but if you’re more comfortable with a handgun - and you never would have asked me to do something like that, which is why I did it! You would have never  _ ever  _ gotten Will back and I wouldn’t be able to look myself in the mirror if I didn’t do everything I absolutely could to -”

 

“I’ll take the flamethrower, thanks.” Jim braced himself for another onslaught of a well-deserved rebuke. It didn’t come, though he could tell by her hunched shoulders and heavy breathing that she was either furious, terrified, or both. Probably both.

 

“Joyce I did it because -”

 

“Don’t say because you love me. We weren’t like that a year ago.” She stalked back to the living room. Jim grabbed the other flamethrower from his closet, suited up,  and followed. 

 

“No, no we weren’t. I did it back then because I wanted to see what it would look like if someone could be brought back like that! Like how I wanted my daughter to come back - I wanted to see it happen for someone even if it couldn’t happen for me, and you had been through hell already. How was I supposed to watch you get your hopes up and then watch you get destroyed all over again?” Jim’s voice was hoarse, and brittle with emotion as he helped strap her into the flamethrower, his hands trembling as he adjusted the straps. He had a sudden epiphany as he stepped away. “Wait… you said we ‘weren’t like that back then’. What did you mean?”

 

Joyce rolled her eyes and inspected the long, awkward weapon in her hands. “What do you think it means, you idiot?” The barricade at the door began to push forward as the creatures gained power in numbers. “Jesus, how do you start this thing?”

 

“Here, let me… Joyce, do you -”

 

“Yes, I love you, now can we please focus on not dying?!”

* * *

“Mom, you guys have to jump!” Will’s frantic tone rose faintly from the bottom of the quarry, and Joyce knew he was right. Those things were closing in on either side of her and Jim Hopper. They were cornered. Well and truly fucked. Unless they jumped, in which case they might still be fucked - but a quick and messy splotch on jagged rocks seemed preferable to a slow and agonizing day or two as an incubator. Joyce had always hated heights, always hated coming to the quarry. Some people saw a breathtaking view with sparkling blue water and impressive formations - they saw poetry on a Thoreauvian level. Joyce hated poetry and saw a gaping, craggy maw of a death trap. 

 

“Joyce, I’m not jumping without you.”

 

Joyce turned to Jim with wide, terrified eyes. They were standing so close together that she could feel his arm tremble against hers - from cold or fear she was not sure. Joyce was trembling because she was absolutely terrified “Don’t be stupid. Go on ahead, Hop. I’ll be right behind you.” 

 

Jim took her hand, grasped it so tight she gasped. His eyes burned into hers as he shook his head. “No! We have to do this now - Eleven is at the bottom of the quarry with the boys. She won’t let us die, I promise you. If we keep discussing this we will die. Horribly.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed each scraped, bloodied knuckle. “We’ve come this far, Joyce. It’s just a little further.”

 

He was lying. They had miles to go before any of them could be at rest. No one had a plan save for ‘run’, and the town was in ruins, and Joyce was so very tired, and mired by a dark, dragging sort of hopelessness. Maybe it was best if she just... but he wouldn’t jump without her, and she wasn’t going to let him get taken by those things. No fucking way. 

 

“Mom?!” Jonathan and Will were screaming in unison now, and the shrieks from the approaching horde were sending cold shivers up and down Joyce’s spine. They were so close…

 

“We jump together,” Joyce announced. 

 

“Thank God.” He pressed another kiss against her hand and shouted: “Tell the girl we’re on our way!” They took two large steps back, and he smiled down at her. “I love you, Joyce.”

 

“Love you too.”

  
They jumped together.   
  



	3. As A Goodbye/As the Broken Glass Litters the Floor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim says it for the last time, Joyce says it when she thinks she's alone

**As a Goodbye/When the Broken Glass Litters the Floor**

 

The bloom of red spreading across his sleeve told him it was over. For him at least. It was a shame, really. They had fought so hard - had taken down scores of those  _ things _ together, even destroyed a nest… but there were still more, and they were bearing down hard on Jim and Joyce’s tiny band of survivors. 

 

Jim looked down at Joyce, who was kicking at the carcass of one of the queen monsters. They had about a mile to go before they would be at the edge of the forest, where the Blazer waited to take them away them all away from Hawkins. The otherworldly chorus of the remaining creatures echoed through the trees, picking up a frantic pitch as they got closer and closer. They could smell the blood already; those were wails of hunger. 

 

Jim’s gaze flew from companion to companion until it rested on Joyce again. Beautiful, resourceful Joyce who had to protect her sons, who had saved Jim countless times. Joyce who had forgiven him everything. She had been through so much, and so had Will and Jonathan. They didn’t deserve to die for his carelessness, but the thought of leaving her...

 

No time. He had to. 

 

“We’ll never make it!” Joyce cried as the chorus grew deafening. She grabbed Jonathan and Will’s hands and squeezed. Jim stood in front of her and cupped her face between his hands, wiping a stray tear away with a gentle stroke of his thumb. She was looking towards the dark uncertainty in the woods, and not at him.

 

“I need you to look at me Joyce - not over there, at me.” The boys removed themselves from their mother’s grasp when Jim’s lips crashed down on Joyce’s in a desperate attempt to get her attention. Her shining, amber eyes fixed on his face. “I’m hurt. They can smell the blood. I’m going to run one way, and you all are going to run another.”

 

“You’re coming with -”

 

“No. I’m not. They’re running in a pack right now, and they won’t come after you if they can smell blood from somewhere else. Get in the Blazer and drive away, don’t stop until you’re out of Indiana. My parents live in Sarasota, that’s probably as good a place as any to run. Tell them…” A hellish cry broke through the air. Jim kissed Joyce again, tasting both their tears as he tried to commit her lips to memory. They broke away, panting. “I love you. Now get the fuck out of here.” He gave her no time to respond before pushing away and making a break for it. He was unarmed, but the ranger station was a few hundred yards in front of him. If he could make it, he could get some weapons and die a good death. Or live and catch up with Joyce in Sarasota. 

 

There was a pleasant but futile thought.

* * *

 

They had been in Sarasota for three weeks. The incident, the scourge in Indiana had not yet touched the the coastal cities, though Joyce and her band of survivors could read between the lines on the news, hear the unsaid in the frustratingly vague reports. Hawkins was a gas leak. Surrounding towns bore similar stories, but sometimes it was an outbreak.futile to try to keep face, especially with the increasingly high population of people migrating South every single day. It seemed  Joyce wondered what use that sort of stubborn self-preservation would be in the end. 

Jim’s parents gladly opened their home to Joyce’s family and the others. Joyce hated breaking Laura and Sam’s hearts with the news that Jim was not among their numbers. Hated being the one Laura clung to for comfort. She felt immense pressure to conjure some reassuring words to soften the blow, but she couldn’t. Joyce Byers was spread thin and tired. Her home was gone and her heart was broken. 

Idiotically, she found herself waiting for him. A traitorous voice kept chanting:  _ He’s tough. He’s on his way. He’ll come back to you.  _ The voice wasn’t as terrible as the dreams that made her wake up full of hope - sometimes whispering words she had never said to him in the waking life - but combined, they made her life a goddamn misery. Her sons needed her to figure out what they were going to do now that they were all relatively safe - they did not need her to be pacing a proverbial widow’s walk with sad eyes towards the ocean.  

Still, the feeling that he would show up - walking up behind her and touching her arm, or strutting confident and victorious through his parent’s long, winding driveway - persisted. 

Joyce woke up one morning, and decided to clean Laura and Sam’s house from top to bottom. After all, she had unleashed her children onto their once pristine ocean-view property, and she owed it to them. She was feeling better to the point where walking around aimlessly was the order of the day, and she knew she had to make up for that too. 

Their massive fireplace had a mantle that was lined with photographs. Many of the photos were of Jim, in various stages of life. He had been their only child, and the realization that they had survived both him and their only grandchild had made Joyce’s duty as the Bearer of Bad News extra wrenching. Joyce smiled when her eyes rested on a silver-framed photograph of her and Jim at senior prom. She plucked the frame from the shelf, thirstily drinking in every detail, ready to lose herself in nostalgia. She had loved that electric blue dress, but hated the matching heels, and he had looked so handsome in his tuxedo, even though he complained about how tight it was the entire night. They had been so…

“I love you,” she whispered. No use feeling self-conscious about voicing it. Everyone in the house was asleep, and the recipient was a memory. 

Joyce gave a start when she felt a strong, warm hand on her shoulder. The frame fell from nerveless fingers and shattered against the ground when a gruff, familiar voice murmured, “Hey.”


	4. A taunt, with one eyebrow raised and a grin bubbling at your lips/On a Post - it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hopper says it in jest and with a little help from a friend.

**A taunt, with one eyebrow raised and a grin bubbling at your lips/On a Post - it**

 

Joyce Byers hated losing. In fact, many many years ago, when she was still Joyce Calloway, a grade schooler at Hawkins Elementary, her report cards and notes home always seemed to include the words ‘poor sportsmanship’. Eventually her teachers learned to keep classroom games out of the curriculum full stop. When she was in the schoolyard, kids tended to halt their games or outright ban her from playing, not out of cruelty, but out of fear. She was easily the smallest girl in her grade, and she had broken the nose of the biggest boy when he gloated over taking down her team at dodgeball. James Hopper eventually forgave her, though. 

 

Over the years, Joyce’s hair-trigger temper mellowed, but she still maintained a deep hatred of losing games - not with her boys, of course; Jonathan and Will went through years of game nights with their mother, not realizing her checkered past as a sore loser. Of course, that changed when Hopper started showing up at their house on social calls. 

 

Joyce had been seeing Jim for about eight months before his first invitation Game Night. He assumed, since they were both on the wrong side of their thirties, that Joyce had grown from the red-faced eight year old who had cussed him out like a sailor and sent a dodgeball hurtling at his face. It was a fair assumption. Besides, they were in a committed-yet-undefined romantic relationship, that had to mean something.

 

____

 

“Joyce! Don’t walk away in the middle of the game!”

 

Jonathan and Will exchanged bewildered glances as their mother stormed off in the middle of a heated final leg of Monopoly. Joyce had gone for the railroads and the big money properties;  Jim bought cheap and expanded quickly. Joyce… was not doing well. 

 

Joyce had lost at Monopoly before. Countless times, but it was always to either Jonathan or Will and many times, she let them win. Here was a game night she wasn’t in control of. It made her furious, especially when she noticed that Jim wasn’t any less of a braggart than he was in the third grade. Her first instinct was the flip the coffee table and clean the slate, but she did not want to frighten her boys. So, she got up and walked away. 

 

Joyce sat at the kitchen table and lit a cigarette, rolling her eyes when Jim came in after her, a frown on his dumb handsome face. He knelt by her side and tried to get her to make contact. She turned her head so that she was facing the backdoor. 

 

“Joyce, it’s just a game.”

 

“Hm.”

 

Joyce heard him chuckle at her outraged sniff, which only made her more irritated. She felt his hand on her cheek, gently urging her to face him once more. She did, and with the meanest glare she could muster. He raised an eyebrow and bit his lip to quell the delighted grin on his face. “Joyce, I love you, you goddamn spoiled sport,” he taunted, kissing her on the forehead, the tip of her nose, and finally, her mouth. She kissed him back, quickly, and then pushed him away. He ruffled her hair in response. “You are the world’s sorest loser, and always will be.”

* * *

 

“Okay, everyone write a name on the post-it. It could be a cartoon character, a historical figure, someone you know. After you write it down - secretly! That’s very important. - you post it on the forehead of the person sitting to your left. Everyone will get a turn 20 ‘yes’ or ‘no’ questions to determine who they are. Ready? Go!” Karen Wheeler set to work, scribbling down a name after explaining the rules to the party guests seated at her patio table. The weather was balmy, the fairy lights were twinkling, and everyone was more than a little bit buzzed from drinking Ted’s famous Dark and Stormies. 

 

“You are writing an awful lot, Karen. It’s just supposed to be a name,” Joyce complained before her friend pressed the sticky paper against her forehead. 

 

“Shush. You go first.” Joyce rolled her eyes and turned to the party guests so that they could read her character name. There was a stunned silence. Jim, who was sitting on her left and bearing the character name ‘Sonny Crockett’ was blushing fiercely and glaring at Karen, who was hiding her grin behind her hand. 

 

“What’s the matter?” Joyce asked with a perplexed look on her pink-cheeked face. 

 

“‘Yes’ or ‘No’ questions only!” Karen teased.

 

Joyce looked directly at Jim and asked, “Am I alive?”

 

“Yes.” he croaked, eyes darting back and forth between her and Karen. 

 

Joyce gave a little hum, and looked over at Ted and Bob Newby. “Am I fictional?”

 

“Nope,” Bob replied with a funny little grin on his face.

 

“Do I live in Hawkins?”

 

“Yes,” the table chorused.

 

“Am I sitting at this table?”

 

Karen gave Jim an inquisitive look. “I don’t know, Hop - is she?”

 

“Yes,” he growled before taking a long swig of beer. Joyce was about to ask the next question when Jim stood abruptly.

 

“I just remembered something. I have to go.” He gave Joyce’s hand a squeeze, but left without making eye contact with her. Joyce’s hand went to her forehead.

 

“Awww, come on, Joyce!” Karen whined. Joyce glared and pulled the note so she could give it a read. 

 

**The Woman Hopper Loves**

  
  
  



	5. With a Storm Raging Outside/When I Am Dead

**With a Storm Raging Outside/When I Am Dead**

 

“Where did you get a flamethrower?”

 

“No time, Joyce- help me barricade the entrances!” 

 

“I just… was this police issued?”

 

“Oh my god!” Jim Hopper took a break from shoving furniture against the front door of his trailer and stalked over to the kitchen, where Joyce stood inspecting the deadly weapon. “It doesn’t matter where I sto- where I got it. It’s going to help us get out of here in a pinch if need be, but we need to get this place secure NOW.” 

 

As if on cue, the sound of clicks and thin, unnatural laughter floated in from the outside. A twisted, black claw slapped against the window near Joyce’s head, which made the small woman give out a startled shriek. The glass was webbed with tiny cracks, and Jim pulled Joyce away as the claw reeled back for another volley, shielding her from the spray of shards as they rained down against his shoulders and back. Joyce twisted from his grasp and grabbed a large knife from the butcher’s block. She gave a warrior’s cry before she jumped onto the counter, raised the knife above her head, and brought it down to pin the creature’s groping hand against the faux-formica. There was a terrible hiss, like ten tea kettles going off at once - the wounded thing ripped its hand from countertop and disappeared from sight; however, the dread inducing sounds outside reached a fever pitch. 

 

“Get that window covered!” She cried, leaping from the counter to get to finish the task of barricading the door. Without thinking, Jim grabbed a hammer and nails from the junk drawer, ripped off two, cheap, particle board cabinets and set to work at a feverish speed.

 

“How many are out there?” Joyce asked, leaping backwards as the pounding on the door rattled the refrigerator barricade. 

 

“I counted three.”

 

“Three? Fuck! The boys -”

“Are safe with Bob Newby. I told him to take them to the vault underneath the Department -”

 

“They’re trapped!”

 

“They’re armed to the teeth and have access to the tunnels. Those should take them straight to the next town over, which is cleared of all… last I heard, that town was a safe zone.”

 

“Why haven’t these things broken through the walls yet?” Joyce asked as Jim moved to help her shove the sofa against the door.

 

“They’re children - they haven’t reached full strength yet.”

 

“I hate you for knowing this. I hate that you kept this from me.” Joyce slapped his hand from her shoulder and ran into the bedroom. “Help me put the bed in front of the window!”

 

“I did what I thought was best - I made that deal for you and your family!” He yelled after her. They hefted Jim’s bed, frame and all, and tipped it in front of the large window in his bedroom. 

 

“This isn’t going to keep them out for long - I never asked you to sell your soul, Hop!”

 

“There’s another flamethrower, but if you’re more comfortable with a handgun - and you never would have asked me to do something like that, which is why I did it! You would have never  _ ever  _ gotten Will back and I wouldn’t be able to look myself in the mirror if I didn’t do everything I absolutely could to -”

 

“I’ll take the flamethrower, thanks.” Jim braced himself for another onslaught of a well-deserved rebuke. It didn’t come, though he could tell by her hunched shoulders and heavy breathing that she was either furious, terrified, or both. Probably both.

 

“Joyce I did it because -”

 

“Don’t say because you love me. We weren’t like that a year ago.” She stalked back to the living room. Jim grabbed the other flamethrower from his closet, suited up,  and followed. 

 

“No, no we weren’t. I did it back then because I wanted to see what it would look like if someone could be brought back like that! Like how I wanted my daughter to come back - I wanted to see it happen for someone even if it couldn’t happen for me, and you had been through hell already. How was I supposed to watch you get your hopes up and then watch you get destroyed all over again?” Jim’s voice was hoarse, and brittle with emotion as he helped strap her into the flamethrower, his hands trembling as he adjusted the straps. He had a sudden epiphany as he stepped away. “Wait… you said we ‘weren’t like that back then’. What did you mean?”

 

Joyce rolled her eyes and inspected the long, awkward weapon in her hands. “What do you think it means, you idiot?” The barricade at the door began to push forward as the creatures gained power in numbers. “Jesus, how do you start this thing?”

 

“Here, let me… Joyce, do you -”

 

“Yes, I love you, now can we please focus on not dying?!”

 

* * *

The movies made it seem so dramatic and beautiful, watching a loved one die - like there was time to air out feelings while said loved one shuddered and faded. Usually they made a speech, strong in the beginning, and then lowering and trembling into a faint whisper before extinguishing like a lit match in a gentle rain. 

 

Jim Hopper was just dead, and not torn apart by a monster dead, or quietly executed by the government dead. No, the grumpy bastard had gotten ready for bed the night before, snuck under the covers next to Joyce Byers, his partner of twenty-eight years, endured a lecture from her about not sleeping in his glasses, fell asleep and died. Dying just shy of 70 years would have been considered young for people who spent their life staying in their own lane, but for people like Jim and Joyce it was a small eternity. 

 

Joyce woke up to find him cold, his face ashen, and his eyes closed. For him, to die with such a peaceful expression on his face was privilege - but there he was, indistinguishable from an actual sleeping person, save for his complexion and complete lack of warmth. 

 

“Oh.” Joyce’s exclamation came out in a sharp puff of air. She felt her lower lip quiver, and her eyes began to sting, but she dashed the tears away with the heel of her hand. Not yet. She made the necessary phone calls with a small but steady voice. 911 and then the boys. Other arrangements would come later. She made her way to the bedroom, with a damp washcloth. He never washed his face before bed, and for some reason it was important to her that he was taken away with a clean face. She performed the task with an increasingly shaky hand, and somehow managed to brush his silvery hair into a look that was more presentable before shattering completely. 

 

At first, Joyce thought the little wail had come from one of the paramedics, that one of them knew him somehow. Then she realized that she was alone and the sound had come from her lips. She brought a smothering hand to her mouth, unable to stem the tide of grief that was bursting from every cell in her body. 

 

“Goddamn it, Hop,” Joyce cried, as she sat on the edge of the bed, doubled over so that her blurred vision could make out his brown corduroy, flannel lined slippers peeking out from underneath the bed. She placed a hand on the bed, and groped wildly until she grasped a large, icy hand. She sat there like that for a long, gaping moment until a knock on the door signalled her need to gain composure. She stood, and choked on a few final sobs, wiping her face with her sleeve. She gave him one last look and told him something he never knew about her:

 

“I love you.”

  
  
  



End file.
